On The Way To Weathertop
by Estel Baggins
Summary: While travelling to Weathertop, Aragorn and the hobbits become aware that they are being hunted by more than just the Nazgul.


Title: On The Way to Weathertop Authors: Frodolives14 frodolives14@yahoo.com and Estel Baggins macfal1219@comcast.net Rating: PG Summary: Three things are hunting the hobbits and Strider as they make their way towards Weathertop, and only one of them is known. Authors' Note: This is book-verse. We're trying to stay as close to Tolkien as possible, so please tell us how we're doing! Flames will be used to cook a nice, plump rabbit and some fat taters. Enjoy!  
Chapter One "It is nearly dawn. We must start soon." Pippin and I have been keeping watch this night. I judge that we are two days from Weathertop. "All right. I'll wake the others and we can have breakfast." "Stale bread and dried fruit. Well, at least the weather is clear." "What I wouldn't give for some bacon, or fresh mushrooms," Pippin moans. He stands up, brushing himself off, and walks over to where Sam, Frodo and Merry lie sleeping. Rising, I stretch slightly. The air is a little chill, but I am grateful for the cold; it keeps us all moving. Besides, scents carry less in cold, dry air than warm. The Nine will have a challenge finding us. Pippin leans down and shakes the first shapeless bundle. "mmm.Five more minutes, please!" Merry grumbles from under the mass of blankets and cloaks. "Come on you lazy Brandybuck, Strider says we have to get started."  
  
"Who's Strider?" "Don't be silly. Now come on, get your rear in gear! We need to get Frodo and Sam up too." I laugh as I kindle the morning's fire. Gandalf neglected to mention one advantage about traveling with hobbits: they can be cheerful about almost anything. I watch Pippin walk over to another hobbit, and though I can't tell whom, I remember Frodo dropping down beside Merry last night. "Frodo, time to get up," Merry and Pippin chorus in a sing-song voice. Frodo's small hand rises from under the blankets in a most un-hobbitlike gesture. "Go away, it's cold out there," he complains. Meanwhile, Sam has stirred next to him and is sitting up, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?" He asks. "The sun will be up in half an hour. We need to keep whatever lead we have achieved." What I do not say is that there is a growing sense of urgency in my mind. I fear that the enemy is closer than it seems. Just before the moon rose last night, I fancied I could see eyes watching us from the shadows. If there were eyes, I do not think they were wargs, as a smell would have come with them, and they were certainly not the Nine. I dread what else may be pursuing us. Merry, Pippin and Sam work together to rouse Frodo from his warm nest. The look on his face is one of anger, but once he is pulled out of the blankets, his expression changes to one of acceptance as he prepares to face another day.  
  
"All right, I'm up, stop shaking me," he cries, fending off the hands of his companions. Once they are gathered around the fire, I distribute a small portion of food. Since the bit I give them seems meager to me, I can only imagine what it must seem like to them. I watch Sam give Frodo part of his share by slipping it into his master's small pile. Frodo doesn't notice, but eats everything. I must talk to Sam about this habit of his. I call him to my side as the others prepare to set out. "Sam," I say sternly, "you are going to starve yourself." He feigns confusion and shrugs, refusing to meet my gaze. I crouch down and make him look at me. "We will not be able to carry you if you faint," I say plainly. "Frodo needs it more than I," he mumbles, barely audible. "After all, he has a heavier burden than all of us." He is blushing hard with embarrassment at being caught. "Please don't tell him, Strider. It would hurt his pride. I'll manage.I'm just worried about him." "None of us will benefit from your starving yourself." He looks ready to argue again, and I silence him with a quelling look. "Enough. You will sit apart from Frodo tonight. Either I will sit between you, or you will change places on your own. Is that understood?" I dislike being so harsh, for his kind heart is something that we will desperately need before this journey is over, unless I miss my guess. I want to say to him that there is no place in the wilds for kindness, and yet, knowing that to be a lie, I keep silent. The work of Rangers, after all, is one filled with kindness and the need to protect. Sam's eyes fill with angry tears and he shakes with emotion. "I understand," he mutters, though his heart doesn't seem to be in it. He walks over to where the other hobbits are gathering their packs and shoulders his own, which is clearly a good deal heavier than the rest. Pippin looks at him with curiosity. "What did he want?" his small voice pipes.  
"Nothing. Just a question about food for tonight, is all."   
  
***  
  
The clear, crisp air is invigorating, and despite the tension, we make excellent time through the morning's march. As unaccustomed as they must be to this type of travel - a swift, relentless pace over difficult lands, followed by cold, rough outdoor camps, not to mention the small amounts of food - the hobbits do not complain, and in fact have shown extraordinary resilience. They seem to understand, especially Frodo, the dire necessity in keeping ahead of our enemy and bringing the Ring safely to Rivendell. It takes only an occasional glance or word to remind them of the seriousness of our mission.  
  
I am concerned about Frodo. The Ring is a great evil, and while he is strong, its power is far stronger and, under certain circumstances, the temptation to use it too much for him to resist. He has been very honest with me about what he and his companions have faced so far, including telling me about putting the ring on at Tom Bombadil's house and the great temptation to use it when the Black Rider came upon them on the road. I can tell that he trusts me, and this is a great comfort. If he will continue to trust me, I can better protect him. Merry and Pippin have warmed up to me also. Merry is surprisingly intelligent, and very observant; it is he who often assists me in keeping control of the others. Pippin is the youngest, and most light-hearted, of the group. He keeps our spirits up with his humorous stories and songs, and is always quick to help, especially when food is involved. Sam, however, is slower to trust than his friends. He has a great loyalty to Frodo, and while he may not fully understand the scope of what he and his master are involved in, he knows Frodo is in danger and has made it his first priority to keep him safe, healthy, and comfortable, even at the risk of his own well-being (as evidenced by this morning's incident). But at the moment, our little group seems to be in good spirits, and I decide that if we keep up this pace, I will allow them a brief rest in about an hour. We will most likely have to march without resting tomorrow in order to reach Weathertop by nightfall, and I want to allow them as much relief as I can, while I can.  
  
I am pulled roughly out of my thoughts by the distinct sound of a bow being drawn back. I turn my head towards its source, expecting to be shot before I even find the attacker- and Gildor, of the High Elves, steps from his hiding place. "Aragorn," he says simply, as he lowers his bow. He looks both stern and somewhat amused.  
"Well met," I answer, trying to keep the smile of relief and joy from my face. I fail. "What happy chance brings you here?"  
He steps forward then, swiftly, and embraces me. I relax; the touch of an elf is something to be relished. He laughs softly. "Well met indeed, though not by chance. I followed the hobbits to Bree, heard about the Nazgul entering the village by night, and feared the worst. But then I was called away for two days, on another matter, which I'll maybe share with you- later. When I returned, the hobbits were gone, and there was talk of a tall Ranger going off with them. I'd hoped it was you, though I thought you were still nearer the Dead Marshes than the Shire."  
"True for you- I was, up to a month ago." Suddenly, I turn my head, filled with the sensation that I'm being stared at, but not in an unpleasant way. Only then do I realize we've been speaking the Elvish since the conversation began. Frodo has a look of intense concentration on his face.  
Then he realizes we've stopped speaking, and looks at me. "What are the Dead Marshes?" Only then do I remember that he speaks very rudimentary Elvish.  
"They are in a land that saw much battle, sadness and death once, and you must hope never to go there," I tell him. Then, turning to Gildor,  
  
making sure to speak in the Common Speech this time, I say, "Are you alone?"  
"Do Elves travel alone by choice?" He smiles. "My kindred are above you, in the trees."  
I glance up and spot a few elven heads, but I know they are letting me see them. "We should keep moving," I tell Gildor.  
"We're coming with you, at least for a while. There is much to discuss." He says this in Elvish, and I wonder about the secrecy.  
  
That night, after we've eaten a good meal- the elves brought much with them, and I the hobbits glowed with joy, and the hobbits are sleeping- Gildor draws me aside. The other elves let us alone, setting a watch so we can hold council without fear.  
Gildor closes his eyes when we are seated a little apart from the others. His face is grave, and I feel uneasy. Still, I wait for him to speak first; patience is one thing the elves taught me when I was a child. "Aragorn, the Enemy has attacked the Shire. They now know that all the hobbits have fled Crickhollow. That's why only five of them were in Bree. They will be making all haste to hold the bridges against you. You cannot hope to outrun them."  
"That was never my intention," I answer. "We must place what hope we having in hiding to avoid them."  
"And still you make for Weathertop?"  
"I hope to meet Gandalf there. Or perhaps my friends will have left us a little something."  
"You speak of the rest of the Dunedain. They have not been seen in this area recently, preferring to stay near to the Shire. In fact, I have only seen the Dunadan, Halbarad, in the last six months."  
"Then you've seen him more recently than I." A sudden wave of loneliness sweeps over me, so unexpected and intense that I grip my knees with my calloused hands. "I miss them all, Gildor, and yet my road may never bring me to the North again." I shake my head, frustrated with my own melancholy words. "There is no time for sorrow or worry."  
"And yet, if you don't release your feelings in some way, they may build up and distract you. When I spoke with Halbarad, he seemed well, and asked me to look for you. I asked him what message I should take to you and he answered, 'Tell Aragorn that his hour is almost here, and that we will stand with him.' Does that comfort you?"  
"Yes, a little. I am glad the foresight of our people came to him. By now, he will have acted accordingly and begun to keep tabs on the others, so that they can be gathered in haste if needed."  
"The people of Rivendell also know your hour is near to hand. Elrond sends you comfort and encouragement, reminding you of Elendil's bravery, and the strength and courage of both your father, Arathorn, and your mother, Gilraen. Elladan and Elrohir are out in the wilds even as we speak, hunting the servants of the Emeny, and also, they have been seeking you."  
"I haven't seen them," I answer, feeling tension in my neck and arms. "I hope my brothers will take care of themselves."  
"They are good, strong fighters. Do not fear for them." Gildor suddenly looked up at me, and his eyes caught the starlight for a moment. "Aragorn, I am here to warn you of an evil other than the Nine that is following you. I have not seen it, but I feel it. This evil is something that hasn't traveled in this part of the world for thousands of years, and yet now it returns, at the hour evil has chosen to rear its head. The vampire has returned to this part of the world, and it is Numenor blood that it hunts. Sauron did not send it, and yet the vampires remember how Elendil hunted them nearly to extinction. They will be seeking you, encouraged by the Nine's wandering abroad, and will take you if they can."  
"How many have come here?" I swallow my fear. I have heard of the vampires, of course, and know how to fight them, yet I have never seen one, despite the great distances I have traveled. Like balrogs, they are something I have only heard of, and prepared myself against.  
"I don't know; all that is known is the vampire has returned. There may be only one, or as many as a hundred. That last is doubtful, though, since we have only perceived the vampire's evil presence a few times."  
I touch Narsil, which rides in his old scabbard on my left hip, and think that he may see battle before he is reforged. He needs no point to his blade to do a vampire damage- the closeness of the silver will hurt it worse than any blow made with an ordinary blade. Still, with my reach shortened, I will be doubly pressed.  
Gildor, it seems, perceives the run of my thoughts, because he removes several throwing knives from beneath his cloak and hands them to me. "These may help."  
I hold them, and they are balanced and inlaid with silver characters in Elvish. "Whose are these?" I ask as I turn one of them in my hands.  
"They once belonged to Lord Glorfindel. He gave them to me as a gift when he heard of the vampires. That was a year ago, as you reckon time. He has many others, wrought by his father and grandfather, and also by the dwarves when there was a better peace between our people and theirs. These blades are perfect for throwing, though I suggest you practice before you use them in battle. We cannot stay much longer; I came only to warn you and make sure Frodo had been met by a true Ranger, since the men of Bree tend to think many men of the wilds are Rangers." He glanced up at the sky. "We'll be leaving after the moon sets."  
I follow his gaze, and I can see the moon will set in less than an hour. "Gildor, have you seen Gandalf?"  
"No." He sighed. "As I told the merry little ones, I am disturbed that he has not been seen for many months." He bowed his head slightly. "Aragorn, I too have a message for you: The hour is near, and so every evil thing is awake and watching. Cover your steps and tread carefully."  
I nod. "I will, Gildor. Do not fear for me."  
***  
I watched the rest of that night, and thus saw the elves leave. Each one spoke a word or two to me; some were comforting, others cautioning. Many of them touched my hand or my forehead in blessing.  
When the sun rose, I woke the hobbits and we ate a small breakfast, since I wanted to save as much food as possible. All night, I'd been thinking about Gildor's warning about Weathertop. I considered not going there, and yet decided I must. There was risk, but also a chance of help, and so I didn't dare pass it by.  
We made very good time, even better than before, and my spirits began to rise. Then, just before noon, a shadow passed over the sun and the wind picked up. I shivered slightly, though it wasn't really a cold breeze, and I smelled something. It was an odor made of decay and blood. I felt for my knives, and found them close at hand. I drew one of them, placing it in my left hand. Should I give a knife to each of the hobbits?  
That decision is taken out of my hands as a wavering cry sailed down the wind. "Stand back to back!" I command. Then, because I have a moment or two open to me, I add, "If I fall here, go directly east. You'll reach the road. Stay hidden as much as you can, never walking on it, but beside it."  
Frodo meets my gaze, but I turn from him. "Stand strong," I order.  
A shadow passes out from under the trees, and then a tall, pale woman steps towards me. She smiles, and I can see her fangs. Vampires in Middle Earth are slowed by sunlight, but it does not kill them. Still, she must either be very hungry or enraged to seek me in the daylight hours. Her auburn hair is caught back and up in a beautiful, jeweled clip; her clothes are made of leather. In the old days, vampires were a symbol of grandeur as well as death, but she has sacrificed all of her finery, except that clip, to be able to move freely in the wilds.  
"Numenor," she addresses me, and her smile broadens. "You have made my hunt an interesting one. Once I knew you were traveling with those plump creatures, however, my job became easier."  
The hobbits clutch their short swords, for all the good it will do.  
"Hello, son of Elendil." I don't take my eyes off the woman, but watch out of the corner of my eye as a male vampire walks out of the trees on my right. He, too, has given up his velvet and satin for more practical materials; his concession to vanity is a belt of woven gold.  
Two of them. If I could afford fear at this moment, I would be weeping in terror.  
I draw another of the special knives, and stand ready.  
The woman laughs. Fear closes my throat. I've faced orcs, demons, Nazgul, but vampires are something else entirely, and to hear one laugh-  
Elendil, if you have any strength to lend me, give it now.  
They advance.  
When a vampire runs, only a leaping stag can outdistance it. The woman is nearer, and so I hurl the first of the knives at her. The knife catches her in her upper arm. Not the spot I was aiming for. She staggers, howling in agony.  
The male vampire is on my then, his fangs seeking my throat. I put my arm in the way, and feel as he punctures the skin at my wrist. I try to stab at him with my other knife, but he knocks it from my hand.  
My blood is all over his lips, above and below them as well. His eyes are green fire as he drinks.  
A blur appeared at the edge of my vision, on the left, where I dropped the knife, then it is gone again.  
"The Shire!"  
The vampire's hold on my arm falters, and I push him off. As he falls away, I see a flash of silver, like a chain, on his neck. I realize in surprise that it is the point of my knife.  
Frodo is shuddering on the grass not far away, his eyes wide. He's never killed before, I'm sure. The other hobbits are standing around him protectively.  
How did he know-?  
But then the woman is shrieking, and I draw Narsil before I remember that I have other throwing knives. Too late now. She's leaping for me, and I bring Narsil up fast between us, slicing through her wrist to the bone. With both arms maimed, she steps back, breathing hard.  
"Damn you, Numenor!" she rants at me.  
I draw another knife, but before I can throw it she's turned into a bat and is fleeing into the shadows of the trees.  
***  
I'm bleeding very badly. I have to stop its flow. Also, the bite is certainly poisoned. I need aethelas.  
Though I know it isn't safe (she may return at any moment), I lay in the grass, pressing my arm against the ground and pinching off the flow with my right hand until the blood stops flowing with such ferocious intensity. Then I walk to the stream which is only a little distance away, wash the wound, then place three leeches on it. They pull sharply at it, drawing out some of the poison, or so I hope, with a bit more blood. At last, knowing I can't spare much more blood, I scrape them off and bind the wound.  
The hobbits were watching me the entire time without speaking. Now, as I turn back towards them, Merry exclaims, "Vampire bites are poisonous, aren't they?"  
I'm amazed he knows this much about vampires. "Yes. But don't give up hope. There are plants that can heal it." A slight lie. Only aethelas can heal vampire bites. "Come. We must make Weathertop by nightfall."  
  
Chapter Two  
  
We've reached Weathertop, and I think there was a great battle here, though I'm not sure who fought. Perhaps it was Gandalf and the Nazgul. I can't know for sure. All I do know is that we must make a stand here. The Nazgul may come upon us, but we will find no safer place. Also, the vampire- woman may come, and I want to be in a place I know well if I am to meet her again.  
Lastly, and maybe least important, at the moment, I am getting weaker. Soon I will not be able to run. The poison is spreading. I must go look for aethelas soon.  
I gather the hobbits together near the fire, and tell them part of the Lay of Luthien. This is to raise their spirits and mine as well. As I recite the words, which are known so well that they've worn ruts in my tongue, I judge the distance to Rivendell in my mind, and wonder if I will be able to travel that far without collapsing.  
Then the Nazgul come. These, at least, I have fought before, though they bear down much more swiftly upon Frodo than I thought possible, even for such demon-shadows as they. After they pass, Frodo is wounded and weak. I leave him, unconscious, in the arms of the others. Sam shoots me a mistrustful look, but I can't spare any thought for his feelings now. For a while, at least, I must harden myself to do what must be done.  
Knowing I have to determine the movements of our enemies if I can, I move hastily into the darkness. It is good that I know this country so well, because it is terribly dark. Still, because of the weakening of my body, I trip several times. The only ray of hope is that I can't sense the Nazgul anywhere nearby. Also, there seems to be only five of them. Perhaps the others are waiting for a signal. I can't figure out why they don't attack, unless they think the Ring can't fly far from them now. The joke's on them: Frodo is strong, I think, stronger than many.  
Including me, I fear.  
When I return, I am disturbed by Frodo's weakness. I call Sam to me and reassure him as best I can, though the news I have to tell is mostly black. When Sam has gone back to Frodo, to boil water and bathe his wound, Merry comes to me.  
"Strider," he whispers, "you say the Nazgul aren't close, and I trust you, but what of the vampire? The one is dead; I think so, anyway. It looked like Frodo killed him."  
My arm is throbbing. I try to keep the pain out of my voice. "Yes, he is dead."  
"What about the woman? It is said that female vampires are extremely rare, but all the more deadly. Bilbo told us that female vampires kill their mates and sometimes even their children."  
"Yes, their hunger can be insatiable." I'm getting too weak to lie to him. All I want to do is lie down and sleep. But Frodo, too, needs aethelas. I must go soon, before the poison completely overpowers me.  
Merry asks, like someone who already knows the answer, "Is she after you?"  
"Yes."  
"She called you Numenor." Merry shook his head. "That means a man out of Westernesse. Bilbo said vampires can smell different kinds of blood."  
I wonder why Bilbo told him so much about such dark creatures, but there is no time for such questions. "I must go. Make sure Frodo stays warm, and continue bathing the wound. You must keep your swords close. I need to go again. I'll return soon."  
Even though I don't look back, I know Merry is watching me go.  
***  
Though aethelas can cure a vampire bite, just like a wound made by a Morgul-blade, the two wounds are very different. A Morgul-blade drags the victim into darkness and endless cold.  
A vampire bite burns like unquenchable fire. Like the Morgul-wound, it spreads. Unlike that wound, though, it will not drag me into the shadows. A vampire-bite acts like a mile-high fire. It's better, really, because the vampires for a hundred miles around can smell it. Not all of my forest-craft can hide me from the woman-vampire now.  
I stumble, though I would normally know this land, and I can't stop myself from falling. A bramble-bush catches at me and now I'm bleeding from several small scratches. Worse of all, the thorns tear open the bite again. Everything spins around me, and I collapse, face-down. Bile rises in my throat, then comes a burning from my stomach, and I push myself up onto my hands in time to avoid drowning in my own breakfast.  
I quiver on my shuddering arms and wait for the fit to pass. It does, but only after I've dry-heaved for a minute.  
I force myself back to my feet and trudge on. Bleakly, I think that I might be too far gone to recognize the plant I need so desperately.  
***  
I've found aethelas!  
I've been crawling for a while now; I am too sick to judge time or distance. My hands are shaking so badly I can't even use my knife; I rip off some of the leaves. Gritting my teeth, I rub the plant into the wound harshly, making it go as deep as possible. Aethelas should really be boiled in water: when its healing juices come in direct contact with flesh, the resulting pain is like being stabbed deeply with a serrated knife. I suck in my breath, but as I continue to grind the plant still deeper, a moan is dragged from my throat. Then, mercifully, the pain begins to recede. Maybe I'll be able to stand soon.  
"Numenor, you have chosen a good place to die. The fat ones aren't here to tempt me, and I won't want to go after them. They're too far away, and I'll be too full."  
I pull out one of my knives, but my other arm can't hold me up, and I fall on top of the blade. It's a wonder I didn't sheathe it in my own body.  
Elendil, please, strength.  
Frodo saved me last time. I am on my own now.  
I roll over, and hold the knife so the point is up, in case she jumps on top of me. This doesn't serve me when she grabs my left hand and bites into it. But she is betrayed, for there is aethelas juice on my fingers. She staggers back, gagging. The plant won't kill her, but it may weaken her a little.  
I can't throw my knife; with my weakened body, I'll be lucky if it goes two feet. And it may not be even in the right direction.  
She is still gagging and cursing whenever she can draw enough breath, and so I turn back to the aethelas plant and rip more leaves away. I rub the sticky stuff on my hands; it makes my bleeding fingers scream, but I ignore this.  
Drawing another knife, I get to my knees, knowing I'm not strong enough for anything else, and wait.  
She fades into the darkness. I can no longer hear her.  
I think we're going to play cat and mouse now. At least my senses are coming back faster than my strength. I may have a chance of hearing her.  
Again, I go back to the aethelas plant and this time use one of Glorfindel's knives to cut away the leaves. I fill my pouch with as many leaves as I can find, then I make my way, still crawling, back towards Weathertop.  
***  
I can see the fire, burning brightly, in the distance. I must make it there. The future of Middle-Earth depends on Frodo reaching Imladris. I've regained my feet, though I still stagger a little, and I hope to make it back to camp I the next ten minutes or so. The aethelas has healed me wonderfully; in its natural, straight form, it heals even faster than elven hands.  
Snap.  
I didn't sheathe the knife I'd drawn earlier, and now I draw another. I can't see her, but she's close. I can smell her.  
Snap. Crunch.  
Why is she making so much noise? SNAP. I begin to walk faster, which is foolish and futile; she can outrun me easily, as I've said before.  
The noises are coming from several directions now, and I stop. I'm surrounded.  
No. I can't be cut off. I can't leave the hobbits alone out here. I need to make it to Rivendell! Let me pass! Elendil, don't let me die until I find help, for the hobbits, and, through them, for Middle-Earth.  
Crack! A fiery branch jumps in front of me, and it's held by a snarling vampire, but not by her. I plunge my knife into its heart and whirl as the others attack. They're all around me, all bearing torches, which makes no sense to me, since vampires can see perfectly well in the dark.  
Where did they all come from?  
I launch another knife, and this one strikes another male in his pale throat. How many knives do I have left? How many of the enemy are left? In the wavering shadows, I see at least three other hunters waiting for me. They're staying out of throwing distance, which is fine with me. Vampires, because of their pride, don't carry weapons. All they have are their long, sharpened nails and their teeth.  
Abruptly, I remember something from my lore-studies with Elladan: when vampires attack in a pack, they aren't after a meal, but only crave revenge. And sometimes they can be turned away by the scent of their fellow hunters' blood. Even seeking revenge, the instincts of a vampire can betray him, and he will seek the nearest, easiest meal.  
Male vampires are sometimes impatient by nature. Two come at me at once, and I throw another knife, but have to draw Narsil for the other one. Luckily, he seems to be relatively new at this idea of fighting in a pack; he jumps too close, too soon, and Narsil opens his windpipe.  
Then fangs and claws catch at my shoulder. I swing Narsil around my head, and those fall away. Again, the poison is spreading. Because I am already weakened, it spreads faster. Already, so soon after the bite, my head is reeling.  
A body lands on top of me, hard, and I'm driven to the ground. Narsil cuts my arm as I fall, but I don't feel the pain; I see the blood trickling in the guttering torches. Four dead vampires lie around me.  
The one on me hisses, and I know it's the woman. She bites deeply into my injured shoulder and begins to drink.  
With my bloody arm free, and yet no weapons within my reach, I do the next best thing: I fling my arm upwards, and spray her with my blood. She curses, and I know I've distracted her. Her hold loosens; she pulls away from my back a little, her fangs come out of my flesh.  
I heave upwards and seize Narsil, still with my bleeding limb, and I drive him backwards. For a terrible moment, there is no sound, and I fear I've missed my stroke. Has she faded again? I'm not sure I can fight her off again. The dizziness is getting worse; it's good I don't need my sight very much right now, because it would be failing my miserably.  
Then, miraculously, I hear a thump, and I struggle to turn around. A shape, shuddering like something possessed, is fading into the earth. Female vampires go straight to Hell, or so I'm told, while male vampires are given one more life, though they must wait a century for it. Her body and her soul are both fading from his earth, never to return again.  
***  
About twenty minutes or so later I walk back into the camp. The three hobbits all look up at me fearfully, and I can see that they're fearing more danger. I drop to Frodo's side, and drop six leaves into the boiling water that they've kept right at Frodo's side. When I've bathed Frodo's wound in the healing mixture, I ask Merry to bathe the bites I sustained on my back and shoulders.  
"We'll make for Rivendell in the morning," I announce as he helps me remove my tunic. "The vampires are vanquished, and the Black Riders will leave us alone during the day, I think."  
Sam comes to me as the others huddle together. Merry and Pippin have drawn their swords, and they're sleeping on either side of Frodo. The aethelas has helped Frodo a little, but he needs Elrond to make the healing complete.  
"Will my master recover?" he asks. He's staring up at me, needing to make sure I'm being honest.  
"Yes, Sam, I think we'll make it to Rivendell in time to help him. Please don't give up hope. Your master is stronger than the Black Riders know, and stronger than I guessed. He will win through; believe me."  
Merry sits up a little after Sam lays down. He walks to me. The night is getting very old, and I doubt they've slept at all. "Merry, please go back to bed."  
He ignores me. "Is she really dead, Strider?"  
I look down at his earnest face. He is genuinely concerned for me, and my heart is moved by this show of caring from someone I barely know. "Yes, Merry, she's dead, gone for good. I killed her when I was coming back with aethelas for Frodo."  
"What about you? Are you going to live? Those bites looked really bad."  
"The aethelas is doing wonders for them. I'll live. Once we're all in the House of Elrond, all of our injuries will be completely healed."  
He nods, satisfied, but doesn't go back to the fire. He curls up next to me and falls asleep.  
***  
Glorfindel! Glorfindel is below us, on the Road! I spring from cover, desperate that he won't leave us behind, but he has already reined in his horse. "Glorfindel!"  
He dismounts and runs to me. "Ai na vedui Dunadan! Mae govannen!" His words are joyful, but his face is drawn and worried. He stares straight into my eyes, and grasps my hand as soon as we are near enough for touch. He can tell I'm hurt. Before I can speak, he is putting an arm around my shoulders, and I feel his touch strengthening me. "Estel, what happened to you?"  
Briefly, I tell him of the vampires. His eyes widen slightly, then he shakes his head. He doesn't speak, but continues to rub his hand over my back. There's no time for a recounting of everything, and I see he knows this as welll. I call to the hobbits, and they come down. Glorfindel turns his attention to Frodo, and I hand him the hilt of the Morgul-blade, which I kept. He shudders as he takes it, then mutters in Elvish, "Fear of all Free Folk." In his normal voice, he tells me to keep it, but to handle it as little as possible. We flee to the Ford, but of course the Black Riders are waiting for us. Glorfindel puts Frodo on his horse and urges him away. Then we kindle a hasty fire.so we can fight the Nazgul. Sam picks up his burning stick, but his eyes are filled with worry. "Will he make it, Strider?" Pippin asks at the same time, "How can fire stop them?" "Follow Glorfindel's lead," I command, and he subsides, though he shrinks to Merry's side. Merry is hardly less terrified, but he's found a resource of strength within himself. He's whispering something, and at last I realize he's speaking one word over and over again: Elbereth. He must remember that I said this word injured the Nazgul. In the end, it isn't the tiny branches the three hobbits and I wave that send the Nazgul into the river; they are terrified of Glorfindel. I can hear them screaming "Elf-lord! Elf-lord! Fly! Fly! FLY!"  
***  
Frodo has been taken to Elrond. Gandalf, too, is here, and that is a relief to my mind, but I fear for Frodo. He is beginning to fade.  
It's evening, and I'm curled into bed, too exhausted to go to the Hall of Fire, though perhaps my spirits would be raised if I went there.  
My door creaks open; this used to be my bedroom, when I was growing up here, and that familiar sound makes me smile. Elladan and Elrohir enter, followed by Glorfindel, who is carrying something wrapped in a cloth. Elladan sits at my bedside, but Elrohir nudges him back, and presses a mug of ale into my hands. "Drink."  
Elladan glares at him. "That's not for the weary, Elrohir!"  
"Why not? It will help him sleep, won't it?"  
At that moment, I yawn, and Glorfindel notes quietly, "It seems as though he doesn't need that aid, Elrohir."  
I take the ale anyway and down it in one swallow. Elladan snorts and mutters, "Men."  
I smile blithely at him, then yawn again.  
"Estel, where are my blades?' Glorfindel demands, his voice suddenly stern.  
I try to jump up. I'd collected them, I thought, but if they aren't here-  
"That's not a very good jest!" Elladan admonishes, but his eyes are dancing.  
"I have them already," Glorfindel tells, me, and I sink back to my pillow. "Pain-in-the-arse elf," I grumble. I dimly wish, as I drift off to sleep, that I could stay in the Last Homely House forever. I can't, of course, but it's something nice to dream about. 


End file.
